


White Knight Tendencies

by thepurplewombat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John has upsetting thoughts, M/M, Sherlock is a cock-block, Sherlock's bed is a very busy place, but tbh the person he's mainly cock-blocking is himself, he is also a bit of a white knight, in which John is confused, someone makes a scene in a restaurant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 20:42:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10226927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepurplewombat/pseuds/thepurplewombat
Summary: They've been living together for three weeks when John finds a woman in their kitchen.ORThe one in which Sherlock cock-blocks himself by constantly filling his bed with people of the wrong gender.ORThe one in which Sherlock is kind of a sweetheart, but really shit at communication, and John is so, so confused.





	

John has been living with Sherlock for three weeks the first time he comes downstairs and there’s a woman in the kitchen. She has long, dark red hair that looks glamorously dishevelled, and she’s wearing Sherlock’s third-best dressing gown open over boxers and a t-shirt that John immediately recognizes as Sherlock’s. She’s making tea and smiling to herself when he comes in, and she jumps a little when he clears his throat.

She turns a blinding smile on him and her grass-green eyes flick over him from top to bottom.

“Morning,” she says, and her voice – husky and sweetly low – goes perfectly with the frankly spectacular combination of eyes, mouth, and body. “You must be John. Tea?”

John doesn’t bother to be offended about being offered tea in his own damn kitchen because honestly, she’s brightening the place up enormously, so he sits down and moment later finds himself presented with a perfect cuppa.

“Mmm, thanks,” he says. “So, I didn’t catch your name.”

She smiles again and tells him her name is Claire, and goes back into Sherlock’s room with two cups of tea, leaving behind the faintest trace of perfume. John hears a deep laugh that can only be Sherlock’s and it’s not like he’s _jealous_ but…okay, he might be a bit jealous. He finds the fact that he’s not sure whether he’s more jealous of Sherlock or Claire more than a little distressing. He may be bi, but Sherlock is clearly a fan of the ladies, and having those kinds of thoughts about straight guys is a road to pain and humiliation and sad lonely wanking.

John is about halfway with his tea when he hears the shower turn on and Sherlock emerges from his bedroom wearing his other dressing gown and clutching the tea like it’s a lifesaver. He squints at John for a moment, then heads straight for the toaster.

Neither of them say anything as Sherlock makes scrambled eggs on toast for three. By the time he’s done, Claire emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam wearing one of those ensembles that can go from professional to on-the-prowl with a roll of the hem and some red lipstick. Her hair is tamed into a French braid and her make-up is flawless.

They eat in silence and when her plate is empty Claire rises with a motion so graceful John is reminded of lions, effortlessly graceful in the African sun. She puts her hand in Sherlock’s hair and ruffles it even more – it’s already a disaster, anyway, it’s not like she can make it worse.

“Thank you for last night, darling,” she says. “You were marvellous.”

“It was my pleasure,” Sherlock says, and escorts her to the door, where she rises on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek as he helps her with her coat.

When she’s gone Sherlock returns to his bedroom without a word, and sleeps for two hours before emerging to sprawl on the couch for the rest of the day.

John doesn’t mention anything, and neither does Sherlock.

The following weekend it’s Anne, and then Grace, and Sally (not Sally Donovan, thank God, John thinks his brain may actually implode at the thought of Sally Donovan marching out of Sherlock’s bedroom) and then Grace again. And all of them are perfectly polite and incredibly gorgeous, and John puts that together with ‘not really my area’ and comes up with ‘???possibly a gigolo???’.

It becomes sort of routine, and to be honest John is kind of starting to look forward to Saturday and Sunday mornings, because Sherlock’s…conquests are really very ornamental and although Anne can’t make tea she has the most amazing blue eyes, and Sally kissed John on the cheek as she handed him his tea – which is more physical contact than he’s had with anyone of the female persuasion for _weeks_.

 And then comes the morning John comes down the stairs in his dressing gown (having combed his hair just in case) and Sherlock’s door opens and out comes Anne, Grace, Sally, Claire, and three or four other women he doesn’t know. Three of them are wearing Sherlock’s dressing gowns, two of them are wrapped in bedsheets, one is wrapped up in the duvet, and one is wearing what he’s almost certain is Sherlock’s shirt. Her panties are…tiny. And pink. John makes them tea and they smile at him and ruffle his hair disappear one at a time into the bathroom to emerge flawlessly put together and still smiling.

Eventually Sherlock appears in his bedroom door and calls them a pack of chattering harpies and tells them to clear off. John is pretty sure that if he tried that he’d  be getting things thrown at him, but they laugh and kiss Sherlock’s cheek and tell him that he’s an absolute marvel and clear off, leaving empty teacups and a melange of different perfumes drifting about the flat. John stares into space, trying to banish the mental images his brain is presenting him with or, failing that, the erection that is determined on making itself known. _Eight_? How…what? Eight? John isn’t even sure how that would work, because after all Sherlock has only one…and there are eight and…it’s all very disturbing, and basically all his mind is doing is going ‘so much skin…’ and he’s very confused.

 John is confused and disturbed. Yes. Confused. Disturbed. Not jealous, and definitely not aroused. He doesn’t care if Sherlock is apparently getting off with half of London, he’d just rather not have to worry about walking in on an orgy every time he comes back from the pub, ta very much. Only how exactly does one go about talking about this kind of thing? “Mate, I respect your life and your choices, but do you think that maybe you could move the sex elsewhere?” is not likely to go down well. So he just keeps it quiet and resolves to ignore the situation. Besides which, if he starts telling Sherlock that he can’t bring girls home, Sherlock would be well within his rights to insist that _John_ can’t bring girls home, and, well, John is still hoping to get a leg over at some point in his future.

 A few weeks after the Orgy Incident, John and Sherlock are on a case when Sherlock gets a text. He’s busy at his microscope and John gets it for him, but the text does not make any actual sense.

“Well?” Sherlock asks, not looking up. “If it’s George, tell him I’ll let him know as soon as I find something and not to bother me until he’s found the feet.”

“It’s not Greg,” John says. “It just says ‘Botany Bay, Violet’, and an address.”

Sherlock’s head jerks up and he’s out of the chair and into his coat, John on his heels, a moment later. Sherlock snaps at the cabby to take them to the address from the text and fumbles in his pockets for something that’s clearly not there.

“Damn it,” he mutters, and fidgets with his hands.

“Sherlock, what’s this about?” John asks, and Sherlock starts as though he’s forgotten that John is even there. “Is this about the case?”

“It’s not about the case,” Sherlock says, and a moment later the cab is pulling up in front of an incredibly posh restaurant with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, and Sherlock pays the cabby and hops out. He stops John from following. “Pick me up around the corner in ten,” he says, and strides toward the doors.

The cabbie is about to pull away, but John taps the glass and shakes his head.

“Just…just wait,” he says.

Through the window, he watches as Sherlock fluffs up his hair, pulls up his coat, and takes a deep breath before going in.

He walks straight for a table near the windows, where a gorgeous blonde is sitting opposite someone. John can’t follow the conversation – he resolves to learn how to lip read – but Sherlock says something, the woman says something…

Sherlock looks like he’s crying for a moment, his hands reaching out toward her. Her dinner companion looks enormously offended, which is a not-unusual reaction to Sherlock and John can certainly sympathise.

It’s like watching a silent movie, really. Sherlock falls to his knees right there in the restaurant, and John can see the pleading expression on his face from the cab. The woman’s shoulders fall and she reaches out to take his hand.

“Okay, go,” John says, but he keeps watching as the fascinated cabbie pulls away ever so slowly.  So he doesn’t miss the way Sherlock pulls her to her feet and they run, light-footed, to the door where, silhouetted against the restaurant light, they kiss passionately.

Five minutes later Sherlock comes around the corner, the blonde on his arm, and they both duck into the car. Sherlock has red lipstick all over his mouth, and the blonde woman is smiling, although her hands appear to be shaking.

She reaches around Sherlock to greet John (because for some reason all of Sherlock’s lady friends immediately know who John is, is Sherlock talking about him in bed? Everything about this situation is wrong, wrong and confusing and strange and wrong) and introduces herself as Violet. She gives an address to the cabby and kisses Sherlock on the cheek with a whispered ‘thank you’ before getting out.

Once she’s gone, Sherlock sighs.

“Back to Bart’s,” he tells the cabbie, who is grinning at them in the rearview. No doubt at the thought of his absolutely massive fare.

“So, Violet. She’s new,” John says. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. “I mean, I haven’t met her…before.”

“Mmm, no you haven’t,” Sherlock says. “She works with Grace, I think.”

“Right. And…will you be seeing her again?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“Up to her,” he says. “Now be quiet, I’m trying to think.”

 Things come to a head when Sherlock is invited to attend a reunion. Apparently uni reunions are a thing, although honestly John’s never heard of one. Sherlock would probably not have gone, except there are no cases on and John thinks that getting out of the flat for a bit would do him a world of good. Sherlock eventually agrees, on the condition that John come with him, which suits John fine – he could use some time outside the flat as well, if he’s being honest.

 So there they are, dressed to the nines – Mycroft sent John a suit via faceless minion for the occasion, and John didn’t even bother to argue, while Sherlock is wearing that fucking purple shirt that makes his skin look like cream, and a suit that caresses his body in a way that John, personally, finds very upsetting. And when they walk into the room, it’s like the weirdest sort of Brownian motion.

 The first woman sees them, smiles broadly, and comes over to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. A second woman sees, and does the same. Pretty soon women on the other side of the room are deserting their dates in order to talk to Sherlock, touch Sherlock, hug him, and kiss his cheeks. And Sherlock is…accepting this? John watches, awestruck, as Sherlock hugs woman after woman after woman, smiles at them with crinkly eyes and all and kisses more cheeks than a politician. He’s asking about their husbands! Okay, admittedly he actually gets more than half of their husbands’ names wrong, but that’s par for the course, and they just smile at him about it.

 John is, once again, confused and disturbed. It’s not that he doesn’t believe that Sherlock could have friends. It’s not even that he doesn’t believe Sherlock can have girlfriends – after all, he’s seen Sherlock faffing about the flat in his pants, and also there’s Grace and Claire and Alice and all the rest – it’s that he finds it hard to believe that Sherlock has had _this many_ girlfriends. All of whom seem to know each other, and none of whom seem to hate him. Some of whom call him Holmes, while others call him Sherl. _Sherl!!!_ And after Wilkes, John had rather had the idea that Sherlock was not exactly the most popular bloke in class. Which, alright, if Sherlock was sleeping with every attractive woman in the vicinity back then, actually makes quite a bit of sense.

 “Nice to see some things don’t change,” someone says beside him, and Sherlock turns to find Claire standing next to him.

 “Claire,” John says. “Hi.”

 She smiles at him and hands him a drink.

 “You look upset, John,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

 “I’m not upset!” John protests. She raises a perfect eyebrow. “I’m just…confused. About…all that. Sherlock is just so…Sherlock. And…well, I’m confused. How on earth has he got that many women to…”

 She laughs and puts an arm around his shoulder, which earns them a stern look from Sherlock.

 “Oh my God,” she says suddenly and stops laughing. “You think…you think we slept with Sherlock.”

 And now John is _very_ confused, because she’s talking as though it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard and John, personally, doesn’t think it’s that ridiculous of an idea. Not when you’ve seen someone come out of someone else’s bedroom wearing their things, anyway.

 Claire is back to laughing now, though, and she’s sort of hanging off of John because from the looks of things, she’s laughing so hard that she can’t actually stand.

 “What’s so funny?” John hisses.

 “You! You think…and Sherlock…Oh my God this is the most hilarious thing I’ve ever heard. Holmes! Oi, _Holmes!_ Your friend thinks you sleep with women!”

 “I do sleep with women, you yammering harlot!” Sherlock calls back. “I sleep with you _all the time_!” One of his crowd of admirers pulls him down to whisper in his ear and John has never seen Sherlock looks so revolted in his _life_. Sherlock actually _shudders_ and his whole face twists up like the time they’d arrived at Mycroft’s unexpectedly to find Lestrade answering the door. “Oh my God that’s _disgusting_ ” he says, and makes his way over to where John and Claire are standing.

 If possible, John is now _even more confused_.

 “Sherlock,” Claire asks. “Did you actually tell John that you’re gay?”

 “No, no he didn’t” John says.

 “I did too!” Sherlock cries. “I said women aren’t my area, what more do you want?”

 Claire sighs.

 “Oh, this is just like the Victor Trevor thing all over again,” she says. “Sherlock, remember how we had a talk about mixed messages and how you probably should have told Victor about the Arrangement before he found you in bed with half the netball team?”

 Sherlock nods sullenly.

 Claire heaves a sigh.

 “Darling, you’re an idiot. John, come sit down. Sherlock, go away.” Sherlock went across the room, where he stood against the wall glaring at John.

 Claire enlists Grace and Alice to tow John to a table, where they sit him down, ply him with strong drink, and tell him the story of how Sherlock Holmes had had more women in his bed than John had ever met, all without sleeping with any of them.

 Apparently, in his first year of uni, Sherlock had been looking for a quiet place to have a smoke, and come upon one of those situations that everyone knows happens, and nobody ever talks about. Three rugby players whose parents had never taught them what ‘no’ means and a girl who’d had rather too much to drink, everyone knows the story. Sherlock, sixteen years old and small for his age, had apparently waded in with a combination of whirling fists and cutting deductions, with the result that the rugby players had been too busy trying to pin down the skinny little bastard in order to give him a lesson in manners to notice the girl slipping away. They’d noticed her come back, alright, since she came back with the rest of the rugby team and every girl at the party, and while Sherlock had been a bit bruised around the edges, he was much less battered than the three would-be-rapists.

 The word spread from there. If you’re in trouble, if your date is not taking no for an answer, if your drink tastes funny or you’re not sure where your feet have gone, _call Sherlock_. Sherlock will come, and he will find you, and he will keep you safe.

His housemates started refusing to host parties because by the end of the night there would be three or four girls in Sherlock’s bed and more on the floor, and if you so much as stuck your head in there you’d be met with a vicious glare and a whispered _fuck off_. Sebastian Wilkes despised Sherlock because after spending quite a lot of money on dinner and ‘improved’ drinks, his date had glanced across the room at Sherlock, caught a shake of his head, and dumped his soup in his lap. The groans and cries of despair when Sherlock showed up at _other_ people’s parties could probably be heard around the world, since he’d leave with a piper’s trail of pretty girls looking for a safe place to sleep it off.

 The system now is pretty efficient, actually. If your date turns out to be a creeper, you tap an app. The app signals Sherlock, provides him with a location, and Sherlock…shows up. According to Grace, Sherlock has proposed to her no less than eight times (she has awful taste in men), every time a beautifully acted, tearful scene of reconciliation that, on two occasions, had the restaurant applauding their reunion. He keeps an engagement ring in his dresser for occasions like that.

 “And the…sleeping, thing?” John asks, awed. “How does that happen?”

 Claire shrugs.

 “If you’re not sure you can get home, you text Sherlock. He takes you to his place, you sleep it off, nobody gets lost or murdered. Sometimes Mrs Hudson lets you in if you can get there yourself. It’s a good system, you know? It works.”

 John sits there for a moment, trying to put ‘goes around rescuing women from creepers’ together with ‘high-functioning sociopath’ and coming up with ‘Sherlock is a goddamn liar’. Also apparently gay as a rainbow, which means that John probably still has a chance of maybe, someday, getting to kiss that long neck and maybe, if he’s very, very lucky, bite that plush arse.

 “And the Victor Trevor thing?” John finally asks. “Boyfriend, I’m guessing? Didn’t know about Sherlock’s white knight tendencies?”

 “Hmm, of a sort,” Alice says thoughtfully. “Quite pretty, in a skinny sort of way. Said he was bisexual but I think he just wanted to have what nobody else could get, because he certainly never went for any blokes after he dumped Sherlock – and he’d have had to, because none of us wanted anything to do with him after that. He got quite nasty about it afterwards as well, told the whole world that Sherlock was too uptight to put out and so on.”

 Suddenly, John finds himself laughing. If this were anyone else, he’d be telling them where to get off, but it’s Sherlock, and if there is one person in the world who can successfully cock-block himself by filling his bed with people of the wrong gender, that person is Sherlock Holmes.

 “So,” he says when he’s eventually able to breathe again, and downs the remains of his drink. Sherlock is still across the room, still watching intently, his face a mixture of amusement and concern. “I think I’m going to go over there and kiss Sherlock. Probably quite a lot.”

 “That’s the spirit!” Grace says and claps him on the shoulder. “He’s totally gone on you, you know. Never shuts up about you. And we’ll make sure we all have rides home, just in case.”

 John nods and gets to his feet. Tugs on his jacket. Turns back.

“And you’re definitely sure he’s gay?” he asks.

“John, trust me on this. Sherlock Holmes is so gay he fell off the other end of the rainbow, okay?” Claire says, giving him a little shove.

The room seems to be terribly wide, suddenly, and Sherlock very far. He’s still watching John’s approach with narrowed eyes, but he drops his arms as John comes closer.

“John, I-“ he says.

He doesn’t get much further, because John is crowding into his space and kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.

And it might have amused them later to learn that they are thinking the exact same thing at the exact same moment.

_Finally!_

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking earlier today about how utterly skewed the ratio of people I've shared a bed with to people I've actually shagged is, and then I had a nap and I woke up and, well...this.


End file.
